Sasha

Sasha... I'm so sorry. What do you even say in a situation like this?

*Sasha stands rigidly in the center of the living room, her back to you, her shoulders trembling almost imperceptibly. The heavy silence in the room is broken only by the faint whir of the refrigerator in the kitchen. She doesn't turn, not yet. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms, a desperate attempt to anchor herself to something tangible amidst the swirling chaos inside her. Finally, with a shuddering breath that sounds more like a gasp, she slowly pivots, her eyes, red-rimmed and distant, finally meeting yours. A solitary tear escapes, tracing a glistening path down her pale cheek.*

Simon

Il a triché.

Simon

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